


It's A Fucking Christmas Tale

by JellyLollie



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Christmas Eve, F/M, Humor, Romance, a bitch and a bastard, still not a multi-chap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27859854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellyLollie/pseuds/JellyLollie
Summary: What do you do when the Christmas Spirits trap you inside a broken elevator with the most insufferable woman in the world? In Jack’s case, he drinks.
Relationships: Elsa (Disney)/Jack Frost (Guardians of Childhood)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

_OVERLAND WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU??_

Bunny’s message comes just as my Uber arrives to pick me up. And because I believe in the sanctity of giving naughty boys the punishment they deserve, I decide that I will not text him back. In the long run, that’s for his own good, really. The dipshit needs to learn that to catch bees, you use honey instead of vinegar. And to be worthy of a reply from yours truly, you are nice instead of screaming at me in all caps like a ruffian.

Also, despite what the overreacting message may suggest, I am merely fashionably late, mind you. I had to find my party attire, and Christmas only comes once a year, so that one took some digging. Plus, it takes serious effort to look this good all the time— something people don't usually realize, and that doesn’t make me the best at punctuality either. Sue me. Or maybe don’t, because Bunny is also the only lawyer I know, and unfortunately, I can’t afford full fees with my garbage salary. Not that I have any need to look for attorney representation anyway. Bunny won’t even be upset once he sees the very thoughtful housewarming gift I’m bringing him — Nothing screams ‘Jolly!’ like a good bottle of vodka, Uncle Nick can vouch for that.

So yeah, I get to his building, and my phone’s still buzzing with what I can only guess are follow-up inquiries into my whereabouts. It’s so fucking annoying that I even consider taking a swig of the booze to take the edge off, but the lawyer conundrum keeps the bottle sealed for a little longer.

In the lobby, a woman’s already waiting for the elevator, but she’s too focused on her phone to notice me. As I get closer, I can see that there’s something iffy about this girl. Not the addiction to her screen; we’ve all been there before. What irks me are the vibes she’s giving off. She looks like she’s just coming back from a middle-of-the-week random trip to the corner store. Like today is just another day; tonight is just another night. There's not a single iota of holiday energy in her whole self, and that’s just depressing. And lame.

“Evening,” I greet, because people may call me an asshole, but I’m an asshole with manners. 

The woman jumps, disoriented for a hot second, then she looks at me.

“Good evening… _Santa.”_

Boy, if I wasn’t in a sour mood before, the way she calls me that sure does the trick. Listen, I’ve worn my Christmas costume to the farmer’s market (totally sober), to Taco Bell at two in the morning (so out of it I busted fairies stealing coins from the tip jar), to a last-minute show of some rock band from London no one had ever heard of before (somewhere in between)... All to say that I’m not alien to the looks of disdain and the mockery. But the scorn on that woman’s face was definitely refreshing.

She doesn’t say anything more; I don’t say anything either, and we stand side by side, just two strangers waiting for the elevator to come. The numbers on the panel take so long to change that more than once I wonder if the elevator is stuck or something, and I watch them going down like it’s the countdown to a rocket launch. 

The damn thing finally arrives, and as soon as the doors open, the woman hurriedly makes her way inside.

When I show no signs of following her, she asks, “Coming, Santa?” 

Two words. Two innocuous words, but her condescending makes me wanna jam my head through the concrete wall. I almost choose to wait for the next ride just so I don’t have to be around Miss Dead Inside any longer. But then I remember that I’m supposed to be getting all shades of fucked up tonight, so putting up with that uptight excuse of a human being it is.

We get stuck there, inside that minuscule metal box with too little ventilation for my liking, in what I can only imagine is one of the most awkward elevator rides in the history of elevator rides, and the next sequence of events is a bit of a hazy mess. I don’t know what happens in what order. All I know is that there’s a loud noise like gunfire; the elevator shrieks and stops with a jolt, and then there’s darkness. Maybe there’s a scream, but everything else is so loud that I’m not sure. The woman drops her bags, scattering everything on the floor, and it’s a mystery how my vodka is still neatly tucked under my arm.

“The fuck was that?!” I turn on my phone’s flashlight, and Madam Buzzkill looks as startled as I feel. I press the emergency button, but it’s probably not working, because I’ve hit it at least eighteen times and nothing’s changing.

“I don’t think that’s helping,” the woman mumbles. She’s kneeled on the floor, too busy gathering her groceries to look at me.

“Well, got any better ideas?” I challenge her.

“It’s probably just a blown fuse. The backup generators should be kicking in, so the best we can do is sit still and wait.”

“What, you work for the power company?”

She stands up. Her expression shifts to annoyed. “I read. Which may be a task too complex for your neanderthal brain to comprehend.”

“You don’t even know me, lady.”

“I know your type,” she says all smug and haughty.

_“My type?”_

“The kind of person who uses their pretty face to get things done their way.”

I laugh, because what else am I supposed to do? Slap her?

“To you, the holidays are only an excuse to get laid,” she adds. “You think ‘living in the moment’ makes you interesting when your immaturity only makes your abandonment issues more evident.”

 _Abandonment issues?_ Who has abandonment issues here? What’s with this girl walking around with a chip on her shoulder, throwing her ‘facts’ on other people’s faces, thinking she’s the queen of the goddamn world? Talk about entitlement!

“Oh, you wanna psychoanalyze me? Fine, let’s unpack my emotional traumas, shall we?”

I take the vodka from my gift sack and take a nice swig of it. Sorry, Bunny, but it’s either this or I’m gonna break something. Still love you, though.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” I’m not sure if she’s more shocked or mad at this point. And I don’t give a fuck.

“This is becoming the worst Christmas of my life, and I once spent it in the ER from falling into a frozen lake.” I’m not even being dramatic, that really did happen. “Might as well try to salvage it.”

She-Grinch huffs. “Now I’m being forced to chaperone a drunkard manchild?”

I bang my head against the door in hopes that the Christmas Spirits will take pity on me and let me out. They don’t. So I drink.

"Jesus Christ," she hisses.

"Hey, no speaking the name of the Lord in vain, you damn heathen.”

_“Are you already drunk?”_

The lopsided shrug she receives as a reply makes her groan. I’m not drunk, but hell can freeze over before I let her off the hook that easily. She keeps judging me with her glares so I keep drinking, and we’re quiet for a while.

My back slides down the wall until I’m on the floor, and I stretch my legs as far as this cramped box lets me. Between sips, I finally snap. “Who shit in your eggnog to make you this grumpy?”

"Excuse me?”

My eyes keep glued to the bottle I balance on the back of my hand. "No offense, but you look like you forgot how to have a life.”

She rolls her eyes with a sneer.

A disgusting snort rises up my throat. And also a bit of vomit, but I manage to swallow that one down. “When was the last time you had any fun?”

"I have plenty of fun."

"Sure you do, snowflake."

She stomps her feet, glaring at me like she’s trying to blow up my brains with the power of her mind. "I'll have you know, my sister is throwing a dinner party tonight—”

“Yawn.” My eyes drift closed. The smugness on my face is driving Psycho Lady insane, I just know.

"Oh, what are your fabulous Christmas plans then?" she asks.

"Getting away from your soul-sucking depressing energy for starters."

She crosses her arms. “Is that what I am?”

Standing up slowly, I say, “Besides being a control freak who thinks she holds all the answers and hates anything that doesn’t fit inside her perfectly crafted tiny little boxes? Yeah.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, poking me on the chest.

“What? You don’t like it when it’s you who’s under the microscope?” I take a step in her direction, and I have to give her some credit for not backing down. Leaning over, my eyes lock on hers, each wave of emotion I feel clashing against a set of her own, and I lower my voice to a growl, “Little Miss Perfect gets to say whatever crap she wants about me, but then she gets mad when it’s her turn to be judged? Who the fuck do you even think you are?”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. She stammers, eyes so wide she looks almost frightened. Which is completely absurd. This girl was about to rip my eyeballs out, and just because I pushed her buttons a little bit, she’s _crumbling?_ It’s like I hit the nail on the head and all the superiority complex gets washed away, leaving just a vulnerable mess behind.

“...I’m sorry.”

Her voice is low and kinda shaky, and I’m pretty sure I’m hearing things. Because there’s no way that crazy woman would apologize. To me. It just doesn’t make sense. _She_ doesn’t make sense.

“What was that?” I ask, and she sighs.

“I was rude. I had no right to say any of those things. And I take it all back.”

Huh. What a turn. I don’t know what to say next. She’s avoiding looking at me, her arms are wrapped around herself, and she somehow looks smaller now. Was that the same woman who’d been yelling at me until a moment ago? What the fuck happened to all her bravado? With nothing else to add to her confession, I look down at my hands as the guilt starts to sink in. Letting out a long breath, I shake my bottle right in front of her face, making her finally look up.

I attempt a smile in what I hope is a good enough truce offering. “Vodka?”

* * *

Candy canes don’t make good spoons, but they’ll do in a pinch. Turns out one-eighty-on-her-emotions girl had ice cream in her bags, and we’d been inside that box for so long that it started melting. Not to let any food go to waste, we sit on the floor, passing the pint between us so we can eat it with our improvised spoons. It’s a gooey disaster, but we’re both too buzzed to care.

“What were you gonna do with all this ice cream anyway?” I ask, slurping cream off my thumb as I snatch the pint from her.

She snorts. “I don’t know, eat it?”

“By yourself?”

She shrugs, taking a swig of the vodka.

"I thought you had a party to go to."

“I thought you didn’t believe me,” she counters with an arched eyebrow.

“I still don’t.” I drop my head back against the wall, returning her the ice cream. “I mean, you’re not even dressed up.”

“Says the depraved Santa!” She bumps the vodka bottle against my chest, and the glass is so cold on my bare skin it makes me flinch. 

By the way, did I mention that my outfit is not really the neighborhood Santa type? I don’t think I did. All you need to know about my costume is that it leans more on the ‘if the Mean Girls’ Jingle Bell Rock was a Calvin Klein ad’ side of the spectrum. 

“At least I’m festive.” I drink. 

“I seriously hope you remember to wear a condom tonight.”

I raise the vodka for a toast and clink it on her ice cream pint. “Cheers to that.”

* * *

I’m lying on the floor, staring at the spots of dust dancing in the air. The world is spinning, and I’m sweating alcohol from every single one of my pores. Feels like we’ve been here for days. My skull is throbbing, my throat feels like sandpaper, and I think I’m gonna piss my pants.

“I lied.”

I lift my head just enough to take a glimpse of my miserable psychoanalytical companion. Somehow, my hat ended up on Crazy Lady’s head, but that’s a mystery I won’t even bother trying to solve. She has the bottle’s rim glued to her lips, and she’s staring bleary-eyed at her shoes.

“You're not really sorry, are you?”

Queen Freak With A Conscience frowns. “I’m a little upset that you think I'd lie about that.”

“That was supposed to be a joke," I mumble. 

Her mouth forms the shape before the shy “Oh” leaves her lips. She doesn't add anything to that, so we stay there staring at each other like two idiots. God, how drunk is she already?

I roll onto my side, propping my head up with my knuckles. “So what about your lying?”

She hums for a moment, eyebrows knitting together in concentration. Whatever is going on inside her head, it’s nothing short of a shitstorm. “There’s no party,” she says at last. “I mean, there is, but I’m not going. I was going to eat my ice cream, marathon The Great British Bake Off, and eventually fall asleep on the couch instead.”

“I get you. Not a big fan of awkward family gatherings either...”

She laughs. “Yeah, you could say that a lot of bad blood has been shed. From both sides.”

I hold a finger up to stop her. "Wait. Your sister invited you to her party, didn’t she? Doesn’t that mean she wants to make amends?”

"Maybe. I think I'm just not quite ready to let go…" Her voice trails off as she loses confidence.

"Of what? Anger? Hurt? Being right?" Shit. Booze is loosening my tongue.

"Partially, all of them,” she admits with a sigh.

For a moment, I just watch that woman. She looks sad. Maybe the alcohol is affecting her, but it’s not just that. Whatever happened between Miss Always Right and her family really messed her up, and I feel for her. Nobody should feel crappy during the holidays. Not even a potential serial killer with issues.

"Can I give you some unsolicited advice?"

She looks up. There’s hesitance there. "... I suppose."

"Life's too short to spend it holding some petty grudge.”

“I would rather not ruin the little my sister and I may still have.”

I shrug. “Better to take a risk once than to live with all the what-ifs in your head. And hey, if you mess up, at least now you’ve got some apologizing practice under your belt to help.”

She stares at me, and that’s the first time I can’t read her expression. Not because I can’t recognize the emotions on her face, but because they’re all there at once, and I don’t know which to focus on. 

"You're a weird one, Santa,” she says with a weak chuckle.

“Right back at you, lady—”

At that moment, the ceiling lights flicker, the sound of the elevator coming back to life surrounding us.

“Looks like we’re saved,” I say, getting up. I offer her my hand, wondering if she’ll take it or if she’ll just slap it away. To my (mild) surprise, she lets me help push her up.

“Looks like it,” she agrees.

The elevator starts moving, so we ride the rest of the way in silence. Her floor comes first, and she clears her throat as the door opens.

“Well, have fun with your freedom.”

I nod. “Have fun with Bake Off.”

She smiles as she gets out, and I watch her walking down the hallway to her apartment. Our eyes meet one last time before the elevator closes all the way. And I don’t know why, but the way she looks at me kinda makes me wish the power wasn’t back on just yet...

* * *

“Look who’s finally decided to show,” is the first thing Bunny shouts when I arrive at the penthouse.

The party is in full swing. Sweaty bodies grind against each other on the dancefloor; the whole room reeks of that inebriating smell of smoke and booze; enthusiastic voices mingle together in a cacophony of debauchery and insanity, and something tells me that whatever electric problem made the elevator stop working has not affected Bunny’s apartment at all.

“I’ll have you know, dingus, that I’ve been trapped inside your shitty elevator the whole night,” I say, tossing him the bottle of vodka. There’s maybe one inch of liquid remaining, but if Bunny notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“Aw, you poor baby!” Tooth jumps out of nowhere and wraps me in a tight hug.

_“Can’t breathe!”_

She holds me by the cheeks and turns my head this way and that way for a thorough inspection. “You look awful!”

“That’s just his resting douche face,” Bunny grumbles, waving the nearly-empty bottle around as he heads back to the party craze. “Find me when you’re done with the self-pity.”

“Thanks, asshole,” I say after him, and the dude flips me the bird like the wild beast that he is.

“You hungry?” Tooth asks. 

Before I have time to answer, she’s already dragging me to the kitchen with her, not that I’m complaining. I sit down on a stool as Tooth goes to the fridge to fix me a plate of whatever leftovers she can find.

“Man, your night must’ve sucked, huh?”

“Wasn’t that bad,” I say with a shrug. There’s an untouched tree of cupcakes on the counter, and I point at it. “What are those?”

“Oh, there’s a new bakery near the office. Try one!”

I take one, and the regret I feel as soon as I put it in my mouth cannot be described by the modern language. In simple terms, the cake is foamy, the sprinkles are rock hard and the icing tastes like plain chemicals. No wonder nobody ate those. “You sure these are not some of those fancy soaps people were going crazy about the other day?”

Tooth huffs. “They are very high quality sugar-free vegan cakes!”

I ask myself what a Great British Bake Off aficionado would have to say about Tooth’s ‘very high quality sugar-free vegan cakes’, and these things are so atrocious I can already see her going to town with it… Wait. Why the fuck am I thinking about Elevator Woman? This is a party! I don't need some wacky Stockholm syndrome symptoms kicking in right now!

I shake my head and glance back at my dearest and loveliest of friends. “Don’t take it personally, Tooth, but this is garbage.”

“You, sir, have no sense of taste.” She looks at me in a funny way, which gives me the impression that I offended her, but she still puts a plate of food and a cold beer in front of me, so maybe there’s hope for my sorry ass after all.

My body accepts the meal with gratitude. Salty and crispy potato chips are a hell of a comfort after functioning on melted ice cream and booze for I-lost-track-of-how-long.

“So what happened to you?” Tooth asks, sitting next to me.

“What d’ya mean?”

“You’re kinda spacing out.”

“Hmm…” I say, my face stuffed with mozzarella sticks. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

Her narrowed eyes scrutinize me for a while, then she leans back and shrugs. “Shoot.”

“Do you ever get so mad at Bunny that you wanna make him regret being born?”

I can hear Tooth sucking in her breath, and that makes me realize what a stupid question I just asked her. What the hell are you doing, Overland? Are you still thinking about that crazy lady from the elevator? How much of a masochist are you, you son of a bitch? Half of my beer goes down as an attempt I stop myself from digging my own grave.

“I mean,” she says, “Bunny and I have our fair share of fighting, but we still love each other at the end of the day.”

“But he’s all milk chocolate and marshmallows, and you’re all paleo diet and... sugar-free cupcakes!”

“Sugar-free and _vegan,”_ she reminds me with a dead-serious tone. Tooth sighs, picking one cupcake from the rack, and sucking a dollop of frosting from her finger. “Nobody is just one thing, Jack. Just because my boyfriend hates eating healthy, doesn’t mean he won’t at least try whatever I’m excited about, even if only to make me happy. And I can have my cheat days too, you know.”

I laugh. “No. You can’t.”

“My point is that we make it work.”

I nod. I’m not sure if Tooth’s explanation helped—hell, I don’t even know what kind of brilliant epiphany I was hoping to have with her answer. All I can think about is her. That psycho sitting on the floor, dripping ice cream all over the place, mocking every single aspect of the hot mess that I am. I should fucking hate her.

“Do you know why I love baking cakes?” Tooth asks.

“Because you can experiment with fooling us into eating less sugar?” I guess with a smirk.

Tooth smiles back. “That too. But I was talking about how baking is always an unpredictable journey. Sure, you can follow a recipe to a T, but when you’re an amateur and you’re trying something new, you don’t know shit. Sometimes, it’s a disaster. You mix the sugar and the salt—don’t judge, it could happen to anyone; the cake doesn’t rise like you expected it to; the flavor combinations just don’t work together... You mess up, but you learn from those mistakes so next time, you do better. You'll get the hang of it if you keep trying hard enough. And then you can have your friends over to eat with you, and everyone loves your cake, because you poured all that heart and effort, and it makes you feel like—”

“Like you just won The Great British Bake Off...”

Tooth takes a moment to compose herself after my rude interruption. “If that’s what you wanna go with, sure. I don’t watch that show, though.”

“I don’t either…” God, I’m about to make a huge mistake, but I can’t stop myself from jumping off the stool. I finish the rest of my beer in one breath. My fingers are tingling. “I think I gotta go.” 

“Wait, what? Where are you going?”

I can’t answer her. I don’t have time for that. 

“OVERLAND!”

I need to get out of here, and I need to do it before I lose it. Now, where the fuck are the stairs in this godforsaken building? Taking the elevator with that woman was what put in this mess. Like hell I’m gonna make the same mistake again. 

* * *

I ring the doorbell, and I’m banging on her door, and maybe I shouldn’t have run down the stairs, because I feel like I’ll either pass out or self-combust. Maybe both. And also take my clothes off, because it’s fucking hot in here, and my head is getting dizzy and all weird. Pretty sure I’m gonna die.

The door opens, but my eyes hurt too much to see anything.

“Can I help you?” Just the sound of her voice makes my heart race. Sweet Mother of God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“I just ate the worst cupcake of my life,” I announce.

My vision starts to clear — oh, there she is. Wearing her PJs like a lame sourpuss. Figures. And she’s staring at me like I’m mental, which, the more time I spend around this woman, the more I think may actually be the case.

“Okay…” she says with some confusion. “Was that all?”

I shrug. My body is too heavy, so I lean against the doorframe not to drop dead on the floor. “Not really, but I’m too wasted to remember the rest of it.”

What was that cake thing Tooth talked about again? Something about screwing up the salt and the sugar and then pavloving people into loving bad cake.

She puts a hand on her hip. “I’m watching Bake Off if you’re looking for some... visual comfort.”

“This show better be a masterpiece if I’m gonna spend my fucking Christmas watching it.”

I try to step through the doorway, but she blocks my way with her arm. She’s glaring at me. Here we go again...

“You knock on my door,” she snarls, “looking like a lunatic who just murdered someone, and you still have the audacity to make demands?”

“I also wouldn’t mind some more ice cream.”

“I don’t have any. You ate it all,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “But I do have chocolate.”

This is stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. What are we even doing? Are we _flirting?_ Is this what it is? Shoot me in the fucking head...

“I like chocolate.” If at the start of the evening, anyone told me that I’d be looking forward to spending time with the fun police from the elevator, I’d laugh in their faces.

“Well, isn't that a relief?"

She takes a step back, finally freeing the entry, but I can’t walk. My legs are too heavy, and my ears are ringing, and I can see dark spots.

The lady crosses her arms, and she bites her lower lip as she smirks at me. I can guess what’s coming even before she says it. “Coming, Santa?”

I laugh, forcing my body to start moving. Fuck yeah I’m coming. After surviving a neverending elevator ride with this woman, watching some British grandmas baking while I stuff my face with chocolate will be a piece of cake— _ha, get it? Cake_. And let’s be honest, after melted ice cream, then vegan soap, there's nothing else I could want tonight.

Merry Fucking Christmas to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And happy holidays, everyone! Also, I don’t know why, but writing in first person brings out my inner douchebag… Apologies for that.
> 
> Check [my Tumblr](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ) for fandom shenanigans. I sometimes write outtakes. And I draw. And that's the best place to check if I'm still alive or not...


	2. Chapter 2

Dear God, drinking last night was a mistake. There’s a constant pounding against her skull; all her muscles are sore from sleeping curled up on the couch, and it feels like the slightest of movements can snap her bones like dry twigs on the sidewalk. It’s not that easy to open her eyes as she’d have hoped; the room is too bright, and her vision is too sensitive. Elsa blinks hard. She regrets everything. 

Her vision adjusts slowly, and it is with some confusion that she recognizes the figure sprawled on her carpet. Mr. Slutty Santa blocks her way, snoring like a dying grizzly bear, and she realizes that whatever pain she’s in right now, he probably has it at least a thousand times worse than her. She treads around the corpse as carefully as her melting brain allows her to, his comatose state a true blessing. In all honesty, she can’t deal with her guest at the moment. Whatever forces brought them together the night before are still unknown—actually, no. Blame for that one could be bestowed upon a bottle of liquor and the typical holiday blues. She was lonely, and he was there, and the raw honesty of his words was the reality check she needed to step down from her pedestal. Not that it meant she was ready to face him, in broad daylight, just yet...

Her intoxicated self has the decency to reach the bathroom before she’s dropping on her knees throwing up, though she can’t tell if it’s from nerves or purely from alcohol poisoning. Both could equally be the problem, probably, and she wonders if two Advil pills are going to be enough.

Too sick to do much more, she drags her feet to the kitchen, where she finds a plain piece of bread to nibble on. Elsa forces herself to believe that the food helps appease her upset stomach, and two mugs of coffee go down before she starts to feel human again. She’s still contemplating the disastrous choices she made the previous night when she hears the rude man from the elevator stirring awake. Her attention is tunneled on her mug, but an uncontrollable chill still runs down her spine as footsteps approach the kitchen.

“Please tell me you have coffee,” the guy says, dragging the words with his raspy voice as he appears on the doorframe.

She gestures to the coffee pot with her head, and with a tone that she hopes passes as casual, asks, “Were you okay sleeping on the floor?” 

He turns to the cupboard for a mug. “I had worse.”

“I bet…” She really shouldn’t, but he makes it too easy, and she can’t hold the mockery back.

The weird Santa glances at her from over his shoulder. “Were _you_ okay letting me stay over?”

“I had worse as well,” she deadpans with not much thought.

“Yeah, I don’t buy that,” he says with a snort, and after a sip of coffee, he ads, “So… What now?”

She mulls over her plans for the day, wondering what kind of personal information would be safe to share with that perpetually horny semi-stranger. Part of her still considers the possibility of him being a criminal on the loose and is threatened by his mere presence inside her home. “I have cleaning to do, and you probably have childhoods to ruin with your walk of shame.”

He nonchalantly smooths the sleeves of his garish coat. “It’s only a walk of shame if you let yourself feel ashamed.”

“Honed that one by experience, didn’t you, Santa?” She laughs.

He crosses his arms and watches her for a quiet moment. His staring drags on for so long that it starts to make her uncomfortable. A smirk creeps on the corner of his lips. “You don’t remember my name, do you?”

Elsa frowns but has no objections to throw at him, so she shrugs. “To be fair, I don’t think I ever knew it to begin with.”

“We should make a game out of it.”

“Out of what?”

“Not knowing each other’s names,” he explains, his smile widening mischievously.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, come on. You know you want to.”

“Aren't we past making unfounded assumptions about each other—”

“The only unfounded assumption I have about you right now is that you enjoy killing my vibe. And that’s more like a fact, not an assumption.”

She sighs, pressing her eyes shut. “Not that I’m considering it, but what does one have to do to end your little game?”

“Well, to win _our_ little game,” Mr. Santa argues with a serious voice tone, “all you gotta do is figure out my name first.”

“And here I thought stupid mistakes were solely a Christmas specialty...”

“Honey, there’s plenty of stupid mistakes where those came from.”

“... That did not sound as good as you think it did.”

He chuckles, making his way towards her. He leans over the counter, his eye level matching hers, and she arches an eyebrow in question.

“So what do you say, lady? You game?” 

The challenge in his voice makes it hard to keep the higher ground. Elsa prides herself on being a rational and composed person (most of the time), but at that moment, all she wants to do is wash the smugness right off his face with a scrubber. Her dissatisfaction wins, and she let out a frustrated groan. Rolling her shoulder back in defiance, she glowers at him.

“You better be prepared to lose, Santa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I can't write Elsa. Also, I am NOT continuing this story.


End file.
